


Spitting Blood on my Predetermined Grave

by Butterbeerandbutterknives



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Disabled Character, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterbeerandbutterknives/pseuds/Butterbeerandbutterknives
Summary: Separate skin from the boneDigging at my fleshLike a schizophrenic with a bladeFingers tracing scarsMapping out reminders of just how much I can take-Excerpt fromPainby Of Mice & MenOr, the one in which Crowley chases absolution.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	Spitting Blood on my Predetermined Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: This fic centers around the topics of suicide and chronic pain.  
> Further Note: Crowley is not explicitly labeled with an illness in this fic, but I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and bases his experience on my own shoddily crafted flesh prison, hence the EDS tag.

Crowley felt his feet blister the moment he walked into the church. It wasn’t like the feeling of walking on coals, or akin to the comforting blaze of hellfire. It felt of acid, the pure holiness of it all, etching further and further beneath his layers of skin, white-hot and icy all at the same time. He didn’t ignore the sensation, nor the way it became more intense the closer he got to the pulpit. No, he relished in it. At least it was another sensation besides the stabbing in his joints that had followed him from the garden of Eden. The holiness exploded when he kneeled before the cross. The blisters popped as soon as they had formed, leaving the skin on his legs little more than pus.

And then Crowley prayed.

The words burned coming out of his throat, no matter the language, so he prayed in them all. English, German, Hebrew, Enochian, he even tried more obscure languages such as Romansch and Naukan, desperate to find the magic language that would make Her listen. His voice was hoarse, and he kept stopping to cough up blood as the words destroyed his lungs. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, he’d gone from kneeling to being sprawled across the cathedral floor, begging for Her forgiveness. He promised his obedience, his undying love, his death even, if only She arrived to take away his pain. To unmake him Crowley and make him Raphael again. To let him, for just five minutes, see what it would be like to not be in pain. To know what it felt like to run without feeling daggers betwixt his bones. To let him have a body that was a blessing, not a prison.

Slowly, the sun rose, and he knew the vicar would be arriving soon. He pulled himself onto what was left of his feet and dredged his way out of the church through the narthex. The moment he crossed the threshold, he miracle himself directly to his bed, where he slept for the entirety of the 19th century, getting up only once, in 1834, to piss.

* * *

When Crowley ran into the church after Aziraphale, he jived his way down the aisle, knowing he needed to keep his feet in as good of condition as possible. There was a war going on, after all, and he had to be visible enough to take credit for the Nazi’s downstairs. (He was, of course, in no way responsible, but it seemed entirely undemonic to not capitalize on all the shit humans did themselves.)

After handing Aziraphale his books, the angel invited him back to the bookstore. “I have a crate of 1926 Nero d’Avola in the bunker.” He offered.

Crowley smiled. “How could I say no to such a temptation?”

They took the Bentley back to Aziraphale’s store, and carefully made their way down the narrow staircase to the bomb shelter. Of course, no bombs would ever hit the shop, as the angel would never allow such harm to come to his precious books, but it helped appearances, and he oft invited neighbors to spend the nights down there. Crowley all but collapsed into one of the cream-coloured armchairs, thoroughly exhausted by his efforts to not show any noticeable limp despite the chemical burns on his feet.

Aziraphale fetched the first bottle of wine and gave them both a heavy-handed pour before turning to Crowley. “Shoes off.” He insisted. “I may not be able to heal your wounds, but I can bandage them, so they won’t get infected.”

“There’s no need, Angel.” Crowley reassured. “I’ve had worse. Barely even tickles.” 

“Well, allow me to at least take a look.” Aziraphale’s voice was high pitched and breathy, a sure sign he was anxious. So, Crowley relented and removed his boots and black socks. “Oh, my.” The angel gasped.

“Surely it isn’t that bad.” Crowley murmured, and carefully turned his ankle to look at his sole. “Look at that!’’ he exclaimed happily. “Barely even burnt.”

“Dear, I don’t think there’s an inch of skin left unblistered.” Aziraphale fretted, digging frantically through the first aid kit he kept on hand. “You shouldn’t have come for me.”

“Oh, sure.” The demon drawled sarcastically. “It would have been much better for you to get discorporated.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips as he knelt before Crowley to better assess the injuries. “These wounds will take _months_ to heal, Crowley.”

 _Years,_ Crowley thought. “And Go-“ He hissed with the sudden weight of the holy word on his tongue. “And Someone only knows how long issuing a new body would take. There’s a war going on, Angel. You need to be down here.” _I need you to be here._ He thought. “Besides, I can always transform into the serpent for a bit, bit hard to have foot pain with no feet.” It wasn’t true; the burns would merely inhabit a space on his stomach, but it sounded nice and he was a demon, so lying was to be expected of him.

“Oh!” Aziraphale replied happily. “I had almost forgotten about that; it seems a lovely idea.” He rubbed a bit of cream onto the burns nonetheless, for good measure. “You should stay here while you heal.” He offered. “I think I have a heat lamp upstairs.”

Crowley shook his head. No way was he going to burden his angel with that. “No thanks, I’ve got a few back at my flat, extra hot and all that.” When Aziraphale was satisfied with the bandaging job he’d done, Crowley poured himself another glass of wine. He was going to need all the inebriation he could get. “So,” He spoke, desperate for a change of subject. “Fuck those Nazi’s, am I right?”

Aziraphale’s laugh, shrill and clear as a bell, echoed through the bomb shelter, and the demon Crowley knew he’d been right in keeping his pain secret for so many millennia. If this was how the Angel reacted to some frivolous burns, he was not about to find out what Aziraphale would think if he knew of the thousands of glass jars seemingly exploding in his hips each minute. Yes, Crowley thought as he poured himself yet another drink, this was a secret he would carry with him to his grave. 

* * *

In 1967, on October the eighteenth, Aziraphale gave him a tartan thermos full of holy water. On the nineteenth of October, 1967, Crowley cried in relief for twenty minutes, finally content with the knowledge that he now was in possession of a tangible escape from the pain. The relief was so overwhelming, he would’ve called it salvation had he not been a demon. With the knowledge that he was no longer afflicted with the burden of eternity, he clutched it to his chest as he slept that night, not caring if a drop leaked out.

(It was three drops, and Crowley pretended to hate the circular scars they left upon his forearm. Sometimes, alone in his flat, he’d stroke them and try to ignore the way it soothed him)

He thought about it a lot over the next few decades. There were a few more things to check off the bucket list before he offed himself. Firstly, he wanted to skydive. He tended to avoid his creations (in a notice to hell, he’d simply written _Invented skydiving, an activity in which humans pay to experience the terror of falling from a plane)_ but that particular one seemed like kind of a laugh. Secondly, he wanted to heal someone gravely injured. Demonic powers were finnicky, and even a scraped knee was tricky to mend. However, with some good old-fashioned black magic, he was sure he could make something work. Maybe as he was joining skin or shrinking tumours or some such activity, he could remember what it felt to be Raphael, even if just for a moment.

The third was going to be difficult. He wanted to tell Aziraphale he loved him. And oh, if only he knew the road _that_ one would take him down.

The first was incredibly simple to pull off. He called a company, forged a check, and before he knew it, he was plummeting down to earth at a leisurely 120 mph. Sadly, he didn’t get much of an adrenaline rush from it, as when he capital F Fell he’d gone much, much, faster and that was a scene he relived nightly, but he dislocated an ankle upon impact and got to freak a group of humans out quite thoroughly when he popped it back int without hesitation.

The second one had to wait until after the antichrist switcheroo. At the age of 9, Warlock complained of stomach pain. He suggested to the parents that they take the young one to the paediatricians, but they were insistent that it was merely nervousness about the upcoming school year. Crowley played the part of doting-nanny-who-definitely-was-not-a-supernatural-creature-in-drag rather well for the next few weeks, figuring what the lad could eat without pain or nausea, until the vomiting started.

After a dinner that sat particularly unwell with his stomach, Warlock turned green and ran to the lavatory. Crowley, being his current sole caretaker as his parents were in Wichita, Kansas for some bullshit reason or another, accompanied the child, and bit back a curse when he saw the inside of the toilet was painted crimson with blood. “Now, now.” Crowley reassured when Warlock began to cry. “You mustn’t worry. I know just the thing to help. Be back in a jiffy!”

Trotting out as quickly as possible in the high heels he wore (They were, admittedly, near the top of the list of his evilest inventions, and more so with his shitty knees) he made his way into the garden and snatched a hummingbird from mid-air. He twisted the head off, greedily drinking the blood from the creature’s throat as if it weren’t absolutely disgusting. When he was done, he tossed the carcass hastily to the side, barely even caring of how it would upset Aziraphale. Grabbing some paracetamol from a cupboard once he was inside, he covered them in his hand, chanting _dominus donum sanitatem_ softly, ignoring the way it burnt his mouth. Back in the bathroom, he handed young Warlock the pills, and stroked his back softly, singing the blessed words softly as he focused his energy inward, sealing the peptic ulcer so thoroughly it may have well been cauterized.

He couldn’t speak for three days afterwards.

(it was worth it)

Crowley felt tempted after he regained his voice. He opened the drawer of his nightstand and looked at the thermos. He imagined standing and going to Aziraphale’s quarters near the greenhouse. He imagined the casual banter, the offer of a good gin, and the careless laughter as they swapped stories of their respective head offices.

He imagined kissing Aziraphale.

Imagined gasping through frivolous breaths admitting the feelings he’s held since he saw Adam brandishing a flaming sword.

He’d run, after, not waiting for the rejection, instead running into the open invitation of oblivion.

(Where would he go? Not hell, certainly not heaven, even purgatory seemed a far chance.)

He imagined Aziraphale, alone at the end of the world.

He closed the drawer, content to leave it for another day.

* * *

He didn’t warn Aziraphale before they swapped bodies. If the pain had followed him from corporation to corporation, why would it suddenly stick with his body, rather than his soul? He didn’t know whether to be elated or disappointed when the pain in his hips and knees remained throughout the swap.

(What was worse? To never have a break or to taste the ambrosia of having a pain free body and know he could never have it again?)

(What was worse, to die with his secret or to have help that would inevitably be tinged with pity?)

Everything blurred together a bit after that, as they learnt what semi-retirement meant for them. What it was like to not send memos back. What it was like to not have to constantly look over their shoulders.

What it was like to have no support system other than each other.

Somewhere along the line, Crowley found himself living with Aziraphale in a seaside cottage. They co-existed quietly, with Aziraphale busying himself with re-cataloguing his collection of pre-revolutionary war American literature while Crowley mostly slumbered. He got up every few days to garden and keep up appearances, but mostly he found himself indulging in dreams.

Some are good. He’ll dream of flying, of creating the stars, of healing his brothers and sisters in heaven. He’ll dream of picnics with Aziraphale.

(He’ll dream of not have been personally thrown from Her domain)

Tonight, though, Crowley dreamt of Falling. Dreams of burning, his wings charred to crisps. Dreams of the impact that formed the Vredefort Crater.

He dreamt of Aziraphale falling with him.

Waking up with an ear-splitting scream, Aziraphale was already by his side. The angel’s brow was burrowed in concern. “Shh, my dear.” He murmured. “You’re alright; I’m here. No harm will come to you in my presence.”

“Fuck.” Crowley sobbed. He grabbed his knees desperately, ping-ponging his patellae between his fingers, using the pain to ground himself. The joints creaked and he stopped before he pushed too hard and ended up with a kneecap on the side of his knee. His stupid, serpent body wasn’t just filled with agony, it also was made with the shoddiest workmanship known to mankind. His bones often felt unhinged, like they were merely floating throughout his body, rather than safely anchored to the harbour of his joints.

“Let me get you a glass of water.” Aziraphale soothed. Crowley was covered in sweat, an unusual sight for a primarily cold-blooded creature, so he figured something cool would feel refreshing. He leaned over, giving the demon a kiss on the top if his head. It took him just over a minute to fetch the beverage, so he was shocked to see Crowley redressed and upright by the time he returned.

Crowley accepted the glass and drank it greedily before turning to his Angel. The lamplight glowed softly behind the angel, and his softly illuminated corporation seemed to radiate soothing energy. “I love you.” He confessed. The angel’s mouth dropped open with shock, and before he had to deal with the aftermath, Crowley miracled himself to the town square.

He landed in front of the church.

It was dark, as no one lived on the premises. He knew the side door was unlocked, but he entered through the front entrance anyway. Why the _fuck_ had he said that?

(He knew the answer. It was because he was too panicked to lie.)

The doors closed with a resounding _thud._ He lit a candle manually, as his powers were dampened in the chapel. He didn’t need the light to see, of course, but it went well with the whole aesthetic. He clutched the shitty paper holder at the bottom (when had churches stopped being able to afford brass candlesticks?) and stood for a moment, revelling in the pain he felt. It was poetic, in a way, that he fought Her punishment not with numbing agents of drugs or other chemicals, but with more pain. Fighting fire with fire in all that.

As he felt his feet blister and pus seep into his socks, Crowley felt like anything but a poet.

He’d met Frida Kahlo a handful of times at _La Casa Azul._ She’d been hindered by her pain, of course, as it stopped her from pursuing a career as a doctor, but she didn’t become an artist _because_ of her pain. She painted _despite_ it, and he often wondered what she would have created had she lived longer. It influenced her work, but even as a ceaseless tormenter, if affected her in the same way her love life or her heritage did- they were all just parts of her, no one puzzle piece forming the entire picture.

Crowley wondered how she did it.

How she saw herself as separate from the anguish that fed on her bones every waking hour.

Who would he be, without his pain? If he dealt merely with the pustules that plagued Hastur or the excessive body hair Alistair bore?

(He wondered, sometimes, who they must have been in a past life to have been dealt those cards. He was Raphael, the healer, who was unable to heal himself. He was the reason the snake and the staff were ubiquitous with healing.)

(Who was Hastur? He hadn’t fallen as far; the demon was once human. What was the reason each got a different punishment?)

He may not have agreed to The Arrangement had his body been more tolerant of travel. On the other hand, perhaps with a body that didn’t sound like rusty door hinge, he would have been able to secure a more physical side to his relationship with the angel.

(Angels aren’t created through osmosis, you know. Besides, he’d glimpsed the covers of romance novels with awful names such as _The Wild West of His Heart_ laying around the bookshop.)

There was no way of knowing. No sheltering certainty to soothe him.

He wondered, after a conversation with Frida, how she coped with the knowledge that her predicament was the result of random chance. Neither side had been involved with the bus accident she suffered, and she wasn’t the part of some larger scheme. No, she was just unlucky.

He wondered if there was a chance he was just unlucky, if God had just played roulette with how she could hinder demons.

He wondered how he could cope without another party to blame.

(At least with a personal curse, he wasn’t to blame on the days he couldn’t leave bed. At least if it was personal vengeance, it had a purpose.)

(If She had hand – picked it, had made an exception for him, at least she could make another exception and cure him.)

With enough miracles, even Beelzebub could hide their demonic traits if necessary. Crowley, though, was stuck with a constant reminder, and a constant visage with the sway in his hips. He saw the basin of holy water next to him in the narthex and walked purposely over to it, resting his hands on the edges. The marble was strong and cool beneath his shaking grasp. “Please.” He begged, looking to the sky. “I’m sorry, mother. If I cannot repent in this life, please allow me absolution in the next. May my death serve not as a final sin, but as a sacrifice.” His hands bursting into pustules, he removed his sunglasses, tossing them carelessly to the side.

“Crowley?”

The demon snapped his head up at the familiar sound. “Angel?” He replied.

To say Aziraphale looked fearful was an understatement. “Step away from the water.” He tried to sound commandeering, but his voice faltered. “Please, Crowley.”

“Why?” Crowley asked. “What do I have to live for, Aziraphale?” He looked down at the trinity of circular scars that anointed his forearm. All three of the hurdles he’d placed in front of his suicide had been jumped. “Why should I torture myself with existence anymore?” 

“You have me.” Aziraphale spoke, his voice warbling.

The demon laughed, a hollow sound that reverberated off the high ceiling. “Ever the Angel. Stopping suicide with lies of affection. What are you going to do next, drag me around Bedford Falls?”

“I’m not lying.” Aziraphale insisted. “I love you too, you know.”

Crowley braced his arms to bear more weight on them. The pustules on his hands burst, sending black, sulfuric pus mixing into the water. His knees were weak, and for once not just with pain, but with shock as well. He was a demon, a master in lies. Everything the angel had spoken felt true, but the blazing honesty of the angel’s confession was so overwhelming it was beyond the point of doubt. “Since when?”

“Dear, please. Let’s have this conversation outside.” Aziraphale begged. “I can smell your flesh burning from here.”

Crowley glanced down at the font of oblivion before him. Could he really submit Aziraphale to the horror of having to bear witness to the extermination of a demon?

(No. He couldn’t)

He backed away slowly. A shooting pain in his hip caused him to falter, and Aziraphale was by his side so quickly Crowley knew it was a miracle. “Since when?” He insisted, quietly.

Aziraphale blushed, not meeting the demon’s eyes. “1347. I saw you killing plague victims when you knew they were too far gone. You cried, and I knew then you did it for mercy’s sake.”

Crowley nodded, and they went just outside the cathedral. There was a bench across the street, so they sat on it. “Raphael.” He announced.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “What about him?”

“That’s my name.” Crowley elaborated. “Or, it was before…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his somewhat crumpled form.

“The healer.”

“When you were in hell, in my body,” Crowley started. “Did you notice anything amiss?”

“No.” Aziraphale frowned. “I can’t say that I did. The others were blemished, but your form is-“ He stopped himself before he said _beautiful._

“There are no vanity miracles that work in hell.” Crowley explained quietly. “Demons don’t trust one another, so they all nullify at the entrance.” He licked his lips and tentatively squeezed his legs together from their previously sprawled position. A jolt of pain radiated up to his hips and he pretended he liked it. He told himself it made him feel alive, even though it was quite the opposite. “Every demon has something wrong with them- that’s Her design. From Hastur’s swamp face to Lucifer’s Clifford the Big Red Dog’s cosplay, the punishment varies but there is always something.”

Aziraphale softened. “Is that why you always hide your beautiful eyes beneath those spectacles?”

Crowley smiled a bit at that. “We’ve been over this, Angel. _Sunglasses,_ not spectacles. They’ve been called that since the Edwardian era.” He sighed. Was he really ready to part with his secret?

(Was he really ready to push Aziraphale away like that?)

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke. The conversation felt too serious for pet names. “Whatever you tell me- it’s not going to change my perception of you. I’m an angel; vanity isn’t big in heaven.”

The demon paused, lifting his eyes upwards. “I remember creating those stars.” He said wistfully. “I remember carving those planets into existence. Took bloody forever.” He noted. “But on nights like this, I look up and know it was worth every ounce of sweat put into them.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Angels don’t sweat.” He looked upwards, at the constellations, and continued. “They are truly lovely though.” He looked to his companion. “I thought falling wiped all your memories, though?”

“It does.” Crowley explained. “But it erases the tangible aspects. Dates, specifics, faces of our brothers. It doesn’t- it can’t – replace the emotional moments.” He touched Aziraphale on the shoulder of his corporation, where the base of his wings would be when manifested. “I remember healing you.”

“Of course, Raphael, the healer.” The angel felt a pang of remembrance. He’d been slashed at by a member of the rebellion. “I confess I don’t remember much; I’m told I was rather out of it.”

Crowley nodded. “Do you- do you remember the pain?”

Aziraphale mused. “A bit, I suppose. It was long ago, but I remember the burning ache of the wound as I healed. I don’t remember the attack itself; I had that knowledge removed. Zachariah said it was best to eliminate any chance of grudge-holding.”

(Crowley felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Was he seriously going to do this?)

(He’d always hoped- _thought,_ he corrected himself, that Aziraphale would confront him about it. Would notice the way he struggled on so many of those walks at St. James and would drag the secret out of him)

(He’d never thought it information he’d give voluntarily)

“That feeling,” Crowley started. He stopped, unsure of himself. “That feeling is what I feel all the time, Aziraphale.” He felt something wet and metallic drip down his face; _fuck,_ he realized. He was crying. He’d never cried in front of the angel; the blood was sure to freak him out. He released a shaky breath. “I’m in pain. All the time. That was Her punishment for me.” He looked down at his shaking hands that were now little more than pus layered over bone. “Raphael, the healer, who can never heal himself. She always did have a sense of irony.”

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, my dear.” He flexed his wings softly in their pocket dimension. 6000 years later, he could still remember the feeling of the flesh being mended. “You don’t deserve that.”

Crowley laughed. “Apparently, I do.”

“No.” Aziraphale insisted. “You don’t. If that’s what Mother thinks then she’s wrong.”

Crowley frowned. “Don’t say that.” He scolded.

Aziraphale held up his hands as a surrender. Tonight was not the time for that conversation. “Why come here, Crowley?”

“Don’t make me spell it out.” The demon sounded resigned.

“Please.” Aziraphale begged. “I need to know what the _fuck_ you wished to accomplish.”

Crowley snapped his head up. He’d never heard the angel swear before. “Absolution.” He admitted. “Though I’d settle for oblivion.” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, his gaze so intense the demon felt as if he was the only living being on earth at that moment. “I will not allow harm to come to you.” The angel spoke, voice low. “Even if it is what you desire.”

Crowley choked back another sob as he continued to weep. “It’s not what I _desire._ ” He cried. “What I desire is to live without pain. To live without me corporation crumbling, to roll out of bed without my hip freeing itself from the socket.” He stared at his hands. “Death, extermination, suicide, whatever you label it;” He sighed. “That is what I’m _settling_ for.”

“Oh, _Crowley.”_ And at the soft tone in the angel’s voice, the tenderness of the touch on his shoulder, Crowley felt himself break, letting the torrent of sobs come as quick as breaths.

* * *

After, Aziraphale miracled them into the master bath of their cottage and set Crowley on the bench in the shower carefully. His hearth clenched as he realized for the first time, that it was not an indulgence of sloth like the demon had claimed, but a necessity for someone afflicted with pain as severe as Crowley’s. “I’m going to get a flannel for your face.” Aziraphale spoke softly. “We’ll deal with the burns after that.”

Crowley hummed softly, too tired to manage a nod.

Aziraphale tried to control the incessant pounding in his chest to no avail. His hands shook as he wet a washcloth. _I suppose this is what humans call anxiety._ He mused. He gently cleansed the bloody tears that caked the demon’s face, stomach churning at the smell of iron. “I need to undress you to treat your wounds.” He said. “Do I have your permission?”

“Leave my briefs on.” Crowley asked. With a snap, the angel had removed his clothes, and he shivered as the cool tile penetrated his bones.

Aziraphale swallowed heavily as he saw the festering mess of blisters that adorned Crowley. Figuring he might as well get the worst over first, he gently lifted Crowley’s ankle so he could see the soles of the demon’s feet. His stomach clenched and he felt his corporation revolt. Putting Crowley’s foot down as gently as he could while still hurrying, he bolted to the toilet to throw up.

“Sorry.” He apologized. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Angel.” Crowley soothed. “It’s alright.” He snapped, and a cup of ginger tea was in his hands. “I’ll shower to clean the burns; the hot water will work just as well as alcohol.”

“I just want to help you.” Aziraphale said softly. He took the proffered cup of tea with a sad smile. “I suppose showering would be a satisfactory method of cleaning; I’ll drink this and then bandage you.” He snapped and frosted the glass, and then turned on the water with a flick of his wrist. “I’ll be right here should you need anything, dear.”

Crowley sagged against the side of the shower, hissing as the water cleansed the sludgy mess of his knees. The gore was washing off in the spray and started to clog his drain, but a half-hearted miracle fixed it up. After a few minutes of agony, he shut off the water. “All done, angel.” He murmured. He was growing weary despite the pain. “Could you hand me a towel?” He thought for a second before continuing. “Bring me my belt too, while you’re at it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Surely you have no intentions of going anywhere.”

Crowley shook his head sadly. “No, but I’ll need something to bite down on.”

* * *

By the time Aziraphale was done, Crowley felt more like a mummy than a demon. His wounds had been carefully swathed with antibiotic ointment, and the worst burns had been bandaged. He knew that Aziraphale was attempting miracle after miracle to try and ease his pain, as he felt the consistent angelic hum beside him, but he knew – as did Aziraphale – that it was pointless.

“You’re going to wear yourself out.” Crowley murmured. “There’s no need to waste your energy.”

The angel smiled sadly. “I would run my powers dry and still not consider it a waste if it was for you, my love.”

Crowley was so tired the casual pet name merely rolled right off him. “Bedtime?” He asked, hopefully.

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale said. He snapped, and the demon was wrapped in a thick, black robe. It’d be easy to manoeuvre the demon in case he needed to change the dressings soon and would keep him sufficiently warm. “I’m going to bring you to bed the old-fashioned way, alright?”

Crowley managed a weak nod and gasped in pain when Aziraphale picked him up. The angel was strong, despite his middle-aged façade, and his fingers were tight around Crowley’s blistered thigh. “Fuck.” He groaned. 

“I’m sorry, darling.” Aziraphale murmured as he placed Crowley on their bed. He pulled the duvet close around the demon. “Sleep now.” He insisted.

“Sssssstay with me.” Crowley pleaded.

Aziraphale sat down gently next to the love of his life. “I will be with you always.” He promised. “From now through eternity.”

* * *

Crowley’s first moments of consciousness were fragments tainted by the blaze beneath his skin. This had happened last time – the fever as the wounds festered, leaving him feeling as if he were actively being boiled. This time, though, there was a soothing cloth across his forehead. “Zira.” Crowley susurrated.

“Shh.” The angel soothed. “Rest, now.”

And the demon obeyed.

Time seemed a foreign concept, and reality felt undiscernible. When his eyes closed, the brimstone surrounding him felt as real as the silk sheets that enveloped him when his eyes were open. It was confusing, and the pain followed him no matter what world he was in. Once, when his eyes opened, there was an angel before him. “Brother.” He whispered.

The angel pulled a tight smile. “There you are.” He reassured. “You’re all right, just feverish. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.”  
“Brother, please.” He begged. “It is I – Raphael. Please help me.”

“I’m right here.” The angel replied, though his gaze was worried. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“No.” He protested. “Please, brother, euthanise me.”

His brother’s face was taught with concern. “Sleep, now.”

And once again, he obeyed.

The third time Crowley awoke, he was no longer ablaze. “Aziraphale.” he moaned. “S **-** s **-** so cold.” Indeed, he felt his teeth chatter.

“I need to get your fever down.” Aziraphale responded. “I know you feel cold, but you’re burning up. Your corporation was seizing.”

“What **-** t **-** t hap-pend?” Crowley managed. He knew he was in an ice bath, but he couldn’t seem to recall any events up until that point.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Aziraphale soothed, brushing Crowley’s long hair back. 

Content in the response, Crowley didn’t fight his corporation when it once again started to seize.

The first thing Crowley was aware of when he awoke once again was the pain. It danced across the outside of his skin and squeezed painfully in his joints. The second thing was the chirping of the birds. The third, and most important, was the sweet musk of Aziraphale.

“Angel.” He whispered; his throat parched. Carefully, he pried his eyes open, and looked to his left to see the angel dressed rather casually in slacks, blouse, and a waistcoat, having forgone the jacket. 

Aziraphale smiled. “I was wondering if you might awake soon, your fever broke not too long ago.”

Crowley had an idea based on the pile of seemingly just-read books that were on the nightstand that _not too long ago_ was defined by their immortal standards, rather than the human ones they oft tried to adhere to. He licked his dry lips, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. He gently started to push himself upwards, and the angel helped him lie against the pillows. His hands were still wrapped in gauze, probably from touching something that held holy water. The wounds on his legs, other than his feet were uncovered. “Water?” He asked hopefully. 

“I’ll go fetch you some right now.” Aziraphale complied. When he returned, Crowley had pulled the blanket up to his chin. “You’ve been asleep for many months.” Aziraphale noted, carefully holding the glass up to the demon’s lips. “Winter will be here soon.”

Crowley thought back to what he remembered. Church. Holy water. Telling Aziraphale about his pain.

Telling Aziraphale he loved him.

“You’re still here.” He murmured.

Aziraphale smiled. “There is no place I would rather be.” He put the glass of water down and pushed a loose curl from Crowley’s face. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a bus.”

The angel let out a small squeak Crowley thought might have been a laugh. “I take from your demeanour that’s a marked improvement.”

Crowley grinned. “I’m awake, that’s a first.”

Aziraphale tentatively sat at the edge of the bed. “Your coherency is a first, I must admit.” 

Crowley slowly pushed himself up, hissing at the strain it put on his abused hands, but sighed in relief when he was sitting upright with his back against the headboard. “Come here.” He instructed, opening his arms. “You look like you need a hug.”

Aziraphale excepted the embrace greedily and felt his eyes fill with tears. “I think we have this backwards.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’ve been content with the idea of my death for many years, angel.” He soothed. “It’s a new concept for you.”

Aziraphale felt a sob wrack his body. “Please,” He cried. “Please Crowley, you must promise not to leave me alone on this wretched planet.”

Crowley wrapped his arms tighter around the angel. “I cannot promise you that.” He whispered. “But I will try my best.”

Aziraphale nodded, wiping his eyes and pulling back. “Can I get you anything?” He fretted. “Food? Medicine? Another blanket?”

Crowley yawned, potting his back idly, wincing internally as he felt the stiff muscles. “You know, I am a little chilly…” He drawled.

Aziraphale lifted his fingers, presumably to snap a heater into existence, but Crowley cut him off.

“Perhaps we could cuddle?” He asked slyly.

Aziraphale softened. “Alright.” He responded. Toeing his shoes off gently, he sat stiffly next to Crowley, unsure of how to proceed. He’d had human friends, and enjoyed some hedonistic activities before, but sitting here, next to the demon, he was suddenly terrified of hurting Crowley, and not just physically.

“I’m surprised you’re happy I’m awake; I thought you’d like the complacency that comes with me being unconscious.”

“I suppose the quiet was nice at times.” Aziraphale commented. “But it was awfully dull.”

Crowley rolled onto his side, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s soft abdomen. “Have you been here the whole time? You must have gotten properly bored. Not to mention hungry.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “One is never alone when in the company of a good book, so I was able to stay thoroughly entertained. And if there is one organ that can drown out the desires of my stomach, it is without a doubt my heart.”

Crowley chuckled softly. “Well, I can’t have you ignoring your own needs just to serve mine. How about we order some take out and see what’s on telly?”

Aziraphale smiled and placed a kiss on the side of the demon’s temple before pausing, panicked. “I’m so sorry.” He said immediately. They’d not discussed it, but something about how the weak winter sun was bouncing off Crowley’s tangled locks seemed more beautiful than even the first sunrise.

“You missed.” Crowley responded.

“I…” Aziraphale stammered before Crowley’s words sunk in and his eyes widen while a blush crawled up his cheeks. “Oh!” He exclaimed, and pressed a second kiss, this time to Crowley’s lips.

It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed, as it used to be a common way of greeting in the old days, but it was the first time they’d kissed like this. Crowley’s tongue snaked (how fitting, Aziraphale mused) into his mouth, and Aziraphale couldn’t supress the moan of pleasure from slipping out betwixt his lips. Crowley broke apart gently. “Whatever that glorious noise was.” He spoke. “I want to hear it a thousand times over.

Aziraphale placed his forehead against Crowley’s. “We should do more of that.” He agreed.

Crowley chuckled. “I agree.” He went to capture the angel’s lips once more, but Aziraphale stopped him with a question.

“Crowley, my love.” He asked, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Why, despite moments like this, can you still contemplate ending it? Surely the joy is greater than the pain?”

Crowley pressed his eyes closed. “In this moment, yes. The light outshines the darkness. But what about those other times, angel? About the nights spent cold and alone, head so clouded by agony the only thought I’m capable of forming is an overwhelming desire to make it stop? I love you, Aziraphale, but loving you and being loved by you is not the same thing as loving myself or this corporation.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well then.” He said. “I cannot promise you will not have cold nights, nor that you will not have nights where the pain gnaws at your very soul.” He looked Crowley in the eyes. “But I can promise you that you will never spend a night alone again. It seems I must love you enough for the both of us, then. May I have that honour, Crowley? To stand by you when even your mind becomes a foe?”

Crowley nodded. “I’d like nothing more.”

A grin broke out across Aziraphale’s face. “So, then.” He declared. “Sushi?”

Crowley laughed. “Sushi.”

And outside the frosted window of a cottage in South Downs, a bluebird began to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> I know suicide in media surrounding chronic pain/ disability is an extremely touchy subject, and for that reason, despite the plethora of EDS!fic I’ve written, I’ve stayed away from suicide, self-harm, and even any overt self-loathing. Oftentimes, media represents a chronic pain sufferer killing themselves as some act of freedom or, even more disgustingly, as something to “relive the burden” of those surrounding them. The truth of the matter is, however, that many, many people, including myself, struggle with both an ill body and mind, are the two often entangle hopelessly. The desire for oblivion is one that has taunted me on nights when pain has left me doubled over, knowing that in the morning I would rise, unrested, to plaster a smile across my face throughout eight hours of school and another three of work. This is why I felt this fic was important for me to write- it is not a declaration that a life full of pain is not worth living as so often mainstream media uses to garner heartbreak, but instead is a quiet admittance that life is hard, and we all will stare into the blackness at times, before remembering our light.
> 
> As always, if anyone needs a friendly ear, my DMs are always open.  
> Skye


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